The year was 1992, and the back lot of Lincoln Park High smelled like cheap cologne, pencil shavings, and the faint scent of cafeteria tater tots. Brandon Lee Thompson—always called by his full name, like it was a stage name—was halfway through his sophomore year and already counting down the days to summer. His Walkman was his religion, and his faith came in the form of Metallica tapes, bootlegged off a friend’s older brother. He wore his black denim jacket every day, even in spring, and he swore the patches on the back gave him “anti-moron armor.”

Every lunch period, he and his two best friends—Nina Dorsey and Greg “Grits” Grant—held court near the cracked payphone by the gym doors. The phone was technically still working, though it ate quarters more often than it made calls. Still, it was their spot. They’d made a pact there on the first day of freshman year: no matter what happened—bad grades, breakups, awkward school dances—they’d meet there every lunch, even if they had nothing to say. They called it the Payphone Pact, and while other kids moved on to bigger crowds or cooler tables, they stayed loyal.

That spring, something shifted. Grits started showing up late, smelling like Marlboros and talking about cutting class with a group of seniors who wore trench coats and didn’t believe in curfews. Nina got accepted into an advanced art program downtown and started carrying a sketchbook instead of her usual thrifted novels. Brandon felt like the last cassette in a CD world. He kept showing up to the payphone, but some days, he was the only one there.

One Thursday in April, Grits didn’t come to school at all, and Nina skipped lunch to meet with her art mentor. Brandon stood by the payphone, flicking the receiver with his thumb, until he finally picked it up and dialed his own house collect, just to hear a human voice. “Would you like to accept a call from—” the robotic voice started, and then his own voice interrupted, “Brandon Lee Thompson.” His mom hung up. He didn’t blame her.

But the next day, Nina came back to the phone, a peanut butter sandwich in one hand and her sketchbook in the other. She didn’t say anything at first, just handed him a page from her book. It was a pencil drawing of the three of them, leaning against the payphone like it was some kind of sacred monument. “We’re still here,” she said, softly.

That Friday, Grits finally showed up too—tired, a little rough around the edges, but holding a fresh cassette tape labeled “PAYPHONE MIX.” It had a Sharpie tracklist that included Alice in Chains, Temple of the Dog, and a weird ska version of “Come As You Are” none of them could identify. They sat there, sharing Grits’ battered headphones, watching the clouds move over the school like they had all the time in the world.

By senior year, the payphone was gone, replaced by a Coke machine that barely worked. But Brandon kept that mixtape, and every once in a while, he’d play it—just to remember who he was before everything changed, and how one broken phone booth had once kept three kids from falling apart.